Drunk writing

It’s the last day of October, and I am doing a desperate attempt to write before November comes like a deluge on Espana Avenue in June. Classes are starting in a week’s time, and I know I’d be dead by then. I shall start all over beginning with a Monday that shakes me like a bad tasting Bloody Mary, a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and the much-awaited Friday, a too-short-it-kills weekend, and it’s Monday all over again.

November means I’m back to the daily grind. It means sleepless nights. It means morning of dragging myself to the bathroom and the 7:30 a.m. unforgiving train rides. It means 4-5 hours of sleep. It means I need to be extra creative in making do with my very little time. It means seeing my students again whom I terribly miss. It means I am only as good as my last class meeting.

It means I’d feel my mortality more than I ever. The best feeling there can be.


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